


Pale Sister

by frogfarm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992), Dexter (TV)
Genre: Gen, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the matter with Debra Morgan? Dexter investigates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale Sister

**Author's Note:**

> Dexter/BtVS (no actual Buffy characters). Post-"The British Invasion". My second Dexter fic, for [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/)**sam_arkand** by request.

 

   _She lives on your planet_  
   But not in your world  
   She speaks the same language  
   But you can't understand...  
   - Coroner, "Pale Sister"

 

 

For once when my phone rings, I'm still asleep. Understandable, since I was out until half past one dismembering and disposing of one Joey Patino, arsonist and wifekiller. He liked to combine his hobbies. So do I, although I hardly ever get the chance.

"Jesus, Dex. I've been trying to reach you for hours."

"What's up?" The tremor in her voice is minor, but enough to punch through my fog of sleep.

"Well, I _was_ at the hospital. Now I'm leaving --"

"Shit!" Visions of gunshots dance through my head. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, bro. Thanks for asking." Her laugh is likewise a little shaky. "It's nothing. I was hauling some homeless guy out of a dumpster and the fucker bit me."

Thinking about the incredible variety of bacteria in the human mouth doesn't improve my mood. "I hope you got your shots?"

"A fuckload of nasty shots," she confirms. "Now I'm starving, and I don't feel like going home to frozen burritos. Or fighting my way through a pack of seniors to get to the buffet."

I heave a silent sigh as I realize what's expected. "Come on over. I'll make breakfast."

"You sure?" Some might call it endearing, how she wears her relief on her sleeve. I paste on a smile she can't see.

"What are brothers for?"

 

**

 

She shows up with a bandage on her hand and a grocery bag full of steaks. While I'm cooking, she paces around the room. More than usual.

"Why isn't your smoke detector going off?"

I look around with a frown. "Because nothing's burning?"

"Bullshit."

"You sure you're not running a fever?"

She shoots me a Look. "Pull it out and lemme see."

I blink. She clarifies, with a wry twist of her mouth. "My steak?"

I comply. "See? Barely medium rare."

"I'll take it."

She bolts it down with gusto, licking her lips. "Considering Dad's TV dinner habit, I'm glad one of us learned their way around a kitchen."

"It's not that hard." I'm still working on my own, dividing it into precise, neat bites with my knife. "You should give it a try sometime."

That gets me a double eyeroll. "And then I'll start wearing a dress."

I decide it's safer to change the subject. "You need to stay here tonight? I can make up the couch."

Her mistrust is plain even if I can't discern its origin. She hands me the plate with a sigh.

"I'm fine. Gotta get back to the station."

"You're not even taking the afternoon off?"

"We've had the Brinks diamond shooter in custody all weekend. Batista thinks we can crack him if we take it in shifts."

I pull my box of slides back out once she's gone, running my fingers down the glass spines, trying to fathom something I can't define.

 

**

 

Deb's out when I come in to work on Monday. Masuka greets me with wild gesticulations.

"Dude. You've gotta see this interrogation clip from yesterday!"

_Deb leans in close to the suspect. Her nose twitches._

_"You're lying."_

"God, that is so hot." Masuka's grin seems more perverse than ever. "Did she psych him out or what?"

_Or what,_ thinks dumbfounded Dexter.

 

**

 

The Dark Passenger is screaming a wordless warning, and I give in to instinct even as I wonder what the hell I'm doing. Harry would want me to look out for my sister. I'm just not sure if that necessarily includes treating her like one of my victims.

The neighbor's dog is barking its head off when I pull up. Deb's front door is off its hinges, and something snarls in the shadows.

My needle plunges into a warm furry body that crashes into me a split second later, snapping teeth a hair's breadth from my face. Claws dig into my arms and chest, but I'm focusing on keeping those teeth from doing the same. It's insanely strong, and I'm starting to tire when the tranquilizer kicks in and gives me the breathing room to pull another syringe from my pocket, fumble the cap off and send another bolus speeding down the same metabolic pathway as the first.

The beast's efforts redouble, now directed towards escape. I hold onto that hope as lactic acid builds in my muscles and sweat oozes from every pore, until it collapses limply on top of me.

I didn't bring plastic wrap, but Deb still keeps her handcuffs by the bed. (I never ask.) I doubt the frame will hold if this thing comes to. But insane as it sounds, I think sunrise may do the trick.

For now.

 

**

 

The whole time I'm telling myself it won't happen. That it can't happen; that there's still some rational explanation. But somewhere in those misty moments between moonset and sunup the thing on the bed begins to twitch and moan, and I watch its transformation with a growing amazement I can no longer call disbelief until Deb lies there naked, unconscious, all milky flesh and too-visible ribs.

I come out of my trance and immediately cover her with a blanket. I freeze as she rolls over, breathing a sigh of relief when she wraps herself up and begins to snore.

As if I didn't have enough secrets.

 

**

 

Rather than reassuring, the farmer's almanac website only makes me wonder how much of a moon qualifies as _full_. Deb doesn't remember a thing, which makes it easier to convince her she'd probably woken up and surprised a robber, who knocked her out before fleeing the scene. I play the dutiful brother, make appropriate fussing noises and insist she go back to the hospital.

I'm in the room with her when they draw blood. My eyes follow every drop as it flows through the tubes, detached professional and Dark Passenger alike burning with unaccustomed curiosity. If only I could get a sample. If only I had more background in biochemistry, or mystic legends.

If only this weren't so confusing.

 

**

 

When the following night fails to produce another 'wolf-out', I figure I've got another month to come up with a better solution. But Deb's getting more aggressive, on and off the job. I don't want to risk her losing it.

It turns out I don't have to wait.

 

**

 

"You don't have any idea what it's like! To have some uncontrollable _thing_ inside you, screaming for b-blood..."

"Oh, Deb..."

For once when I take her in my arms, it doesn't feel like an act.

 

**

 

I do, however, draw the line at having to babysit.

"A _support group_?"

"HOWL. Humans of Werewolf Lineage." I try to appear helpful, if not exactly innocent. "They have great coffee."

"What the fuck would you know about it?" she snorts. "Oh, right. You took the twelve steps."

"What?"

"Back when Doakes was still around. He had some bug up his ass --"

"Surprise."

"-- about you being a junkie. I told him he couldn't be more wrong."

"He had a lot of strange ideas."

She frowns, trying to fit the pieces together. "But where'd he get that one?"

"I have no clue."

Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow. "Bullshit."

I wonder how loud my heartbeat sounds to her. "I was just...going to meetings. Like _Fight Club_. He saw me coming out of one."

She lets out a revolted, choking laugh. "Jesus, Dex, why? So you could meet psycho chicks like Miss Titty Vampire Arsonist?"

"I...guess I was looking for answers."

She shakes her head. "Well, you and Rita must have been having one fuck of a fight to make you step out on her like that. You ever pull that shit again, I'm gonna smack you around."

A fair fight could be interesting. "More steak?"

"Hell, yes."

 

**

 

The summer rolls by, mostly uneventful. Crime is down overall -- nothing severe enough to warrant my attention. Which is good. I don't relish the idea of paranoid chemical shower scrubs that still fail to remove every last molecule of incriminating scent from my body. The Dark Passenger is surprisingly quiescent. I wonder if it's a survival mechanism.

The night it goes south, she's come over to sample the fruits of my research into _sous vide_. My hope is to serve her the perfect ultra-rare steak that isn't actually raw. Her psychological squeamishness is at complete odds with her newfound physical abilities, but she seems to be fighting to control it now on a daily basis. I've just told her more raw meat might calm her down, and excuse myself to the bathroom.

When I come out, the air conditioner on the wall hangs open. My box of slides as well, on the desk before her, as she stares me down.

"What the fuck is this?"

I choose my words with utmost care. "I could tell you it belonged to Doakes. That I stole it from the evidence room."

"Are you going to?"

"I wouldn't insult your intelligence." I stay right where I am, watching her cute button nose give the tiniest twitch. "Do you want to know?"

She doesn't, of course.

I tell her anyway.

Her arms start to tremble, and she doubles over.

I back into the kitchen with both eyes on her. My hand finds the knife on the counter, and I clutch it tight with a secret smile as she roars, preparing to spring.

This will be interesting.

I hope one of us survives.

I hope it's her.

 

**  



End file.
